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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23060044">After the Storm (Working Title)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoodlesOfTheMind/pseuds/DoodlesOfTheMind'>DoodlesOfTheMind</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath Of The Time War, Alien Planet, F/F, F/M, Jack being Jack, Jack working on the TARDIS, M/M, Multi, Never let him see the damage, OC Time War Era TARDIS Crew, Set between The Doctor Dances and Boom Town, TARDIS repairs, Team TARDIS becoming a family, Telepathy, The Doctor's Time War Guilt (hint: it's bigger on the inside), The Oncoming Storm (Doctor Who), Time Lord Technology</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:14:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,267</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23060044</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoodlesOfTheMind/pseuds/DoodlesOfTheMind</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He is absolutely certain that he’s never mentioned the scorched, crumbling husk of the Korvan crystalmatrix to Jack. Or the screaming rent in space-time that finally burned it out as entire galaxies collapsed in on themselves, countless lives obliterated, millennia of history carved away and infinite futures ground to stardust in the rippling aftershocks of the de-mat bomb. Collateral damage. A quadrillion casual genocides. It never fails that when his repairs take him under the console, the Doctor finds himself staring up into the deadened crystalline lattice, watching pale golden light flicker feebly at his touch before it fades away like so many stars once did.</p><p>Provided he didn’t let the lad cause too much carnage under the console, a functional Korvan matrix would do the TARDIS and the universe at large a world of good.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack Harkness/Rose Tyler, Ninth Doctor/Jack Harkness, Ninth Doctor/Jack Harkness/Rose Tyler, Ninth Doctor/Rose Tyler</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“And we are <em> running </em> for the shuttle docks, John nearly blows my leg off trying to do up his zipper with his blaster in one hand, the datastick between his teeth. I go left, that bastard goes right, and all of a sudden, I’m on my knees in a broom closet with V’lox and Javir—captain of the guard and an absolutely <em> beautiful </em> singer by the way, lovely ballads, she was every bit the warrior poet. Javir’s got one hand in my hair and my arm twisted behind my back as V’lox jams the barrel of his gun in my mouth." Blue eyes sparkle with mirth and mischief in the fading sunlight of the coffee shop balcony. "Of course, V’lox asks if I have any last words. So I say, in my best Mol’voran: ‘That’s not where you wanted to put it last night.’”</p><p>Rose snorts into her mug. “You didn’t!” she gasps. “To the Crown Prince?”</p><p>“If I set foot on Cassadro again, I’m a dead man.” Jack takes a sip, white ceramic doing nothing to conceal the self-satisfied smirk on his lips.</p><p>The Doctor starts adding sugar cubes to his tea - One. Two. - watching the way they balance just for a nanosecond before they break the surface tension of the liquid, crumbling away. Three is too many, this regeneration’s resurgent sweet tooth or not. He flicks it at Jack instead, bouncing it off his chest to land in the other man’s cup with a satisfying plop.</p><p>Rose nudges his shoulder, still laughing. “Behave.” A lock of blonde hair falls forward over her shoulder as she moves, the autumn sunset bringing out new variations in the colour, rich, ruddy tones glinting in contrast against her heavy denim jacket. She’s relaxed here, comfortable in her own time zone and reveling in a taste of home while the TARDIS refuels. Jack is too, though 21st century Earth is new territory for him. He has his back to the stone wall and a view of the door, but it’s merely habit, not hard-learned caution. Most telling, he’s left his coat behind in the TARDIS and with it, the ability to carry a gun in the streets of Cardiff. To the Doctor, Jack’s close-fitting jeans and tucked-in white T-shirt are a conscious and decisive display of trust.</p><p>It knocks the restlessness out of him. “What, <em> me</em>? After that sordid tale?” he says, grinning at the pair of them.</p><p>“You’d have done the same thing,” Jack protests, utterly unrepentant. “It was a public service, really. And most of the money went to support the continuing education of some <em> very </em> talented stellar engineering post-docs on—”</p><p>“You’re a menace, lad.” It doesn’t come out quite as stern as he would have liked. He scowls that much harder because of it, and pushes away a swell of uneasy affection. He could justify it once. Rose’s local knowledge was an asset, and it wasn’t as though he <em> tried </em> to involve her. The resourcefulness and courage she showed under fire that day more than earned a glimpse of the world beyond her front door. She certainly didn’t deserve what he’d put her through on that first trip, any more than he deserved her simple kindness in its aftermath. It wasn’t forgiveness, because in Rose’s mind there was nothing that needed forgiving, and that still sears his hearts when he remembers warm fingers slipping between his, small and soft but so real and so incredibly strong as she tugged him down the sidewalk. Their second journey was meant to be an apology of sorts, a way of setting things right before he took her home, and well, that turned out just <em> brilliantly</em>, didn’t it? He glowers down into his tea. Too far removed from her familiar world, already growing into a vast new wanderlust woken in her soul...to leave her then would have been unconscionable. </p><p>He could even excuse Jack at first. Despite everything, he was genuinely moved by the forethought that went into planning his scheme with the Chula ambulance, manually programming the capsule’s descent pattern with controls designed for alien hands. It would have taken hours to work through the calculations—maybe days with the added complexity of a major population center turned into a battlefield, so many moving parts—and hours more to feed them through a console that must have fought him every step of the way. It’s easier to think that he tricked the other man into catching that bomb with his tractor beam, to believe that he manipulated Jack into saving their lives...to lay the blame for what would have happened if his last-ditch effort to stop the nanogenes had failed squarely on his own shoulders. A few days with the Captain on board, and the lie fell apart. He’s coming to find that everything about Jack Harkness is honest.</p><p>There is no rationalization for <em> this</em>. He has no right to this, to even <em> want </em> this. He also knows that for however long it may last, Jack and Rose have made it clear they’re going nowhere. The certainty of that stirs something desperate in him, something that flares hotter and brighter, threatening little pinpricks behind his eyes when Rose’s hand closes over his, giving him a gentle shake.</p><p>“Doctor?” Rose asks.</p><p>“Hm? Sorry, did I miss something?” he asks brightly.</p><p>“Lost you for a minute, there.” Her voice isn’t quite timid, but it’s tender and concerned in that way she gets sometimes, deep brown eyes watching him intently like she’s not sure if she’s crossing some line. Or like she knows she is. He can feel the low flutter of worry in her thoughts, subtle but persistent through the skin contact. A moment’s concentration is enough to mute the sensation, and if the silence it leaves behind feels more like severing a limb, that’s something he’s had plenty of time to become accustomed to. He doesn’t pull his hand away.</p><p>“Sugar cubes.” He plucks another one from the dish at the center of the table. “Terribly inefficient design. Don’t you lot have anything better to do than sit around waiting for the blasted things to dissolve? Sugar <em> wafers </em> make much more sense, greater exposed surface area.”</p><p>“Level five world, Doc.” Jack shakes his head in mock sorrow. “Be glad they have indoor plumbing.”</p><p>Rose narrows her eyes. She isn’t buying the distraction, but she’s outnumbered. <em> Good lad</em>, the Doctor thinks, and he lets himself give in to the other man’s infectious smile. He doesn’t—he’ll <em> never </em> deserve this, but he won’t ever let it go. “Now if only that mall had a proper teleport network,” the Doctor teases, gesturing to the pile of shopping bags tucked under the table between their feet. He’d had a good laugh watching Jack search for the public transmat and nearly chuck Rose’s new boots in the bin.</p><p>“Where did you say that shopping center was again?” Rose asks. Her leg brushes against the bag containing the shoes and a new scarf as if to reassure herself they’re still there.</p><p>“It’s not just a mall, it’s the central trade hub of the Kobolos system in the fifty-third century,” Jack explains. “The whole planet’s run by the Virnad merchant guild, nothing but retail space from core to stratosphere. You can get anything you could ever want on Virnados, and I do mean anything,” he adds with a wink.</p><p>The Doctor takes another sip of tea and vows never to bring Rose within a hundred lightyears of Kobolos. “You and shopping. Forget apes, it's more like magpies and shiny things.”</p><p>“But there are still <em> shops</em>, though?” Rose presses, and that spark of curiosity in her voice threatens the Doctor’s resolve already. “People don’t, I dunno, look at holograms or order everything online?”</p><p>Jack gestures dismissively at the table next to theirs, where a young man in a suit is typing diligently on a silver laptop. “Far as I can tell, you could do that now.”</p><p>“What about the postal service? Do people still send letters?” Rose asks.</p><p>Jack just looks baffled. “Have the two of you really never visited a modern world?”</p><p>“Define ‘modern’ to a time traveller,” the Doctor says with a shrug.</p><p>“At least level nine. A fully space-faring society.” Jack inclines his head to Rose, gracious with the preemptive explanation. “Come on, Doc. I know you’ve been needing a new Korvan converter for the TARDIS. We’re not going to find one at Maplin.”</p><p>The Doctor raises an eyebrow. Nearly a millennium of Time Lord mental discipline, and it takes everything he has not to flinch. It’s not unusual for Jack to find a reason to join him in the console room while he’s working on restoring some sense of order to his battered capsule. The lad isn’t intrusive about it, he just lounges across the jump seat with one leg thrown over the backrest or sprawls out on his stomach on the grating, usually with a book or some new gadget he’s been tinkering with in the workshop he’s claimed as his own. The Doctor won’t admit to taking any kind of comfort in Jack’s presence during these times, but the TARDIS likes him. And he does find it easier to focus on the task at hand rather than the damage that necessitated it when he can talk to himself as he works, and hear the occasional affirmative or inquisitive sound from the man behind him.</p><p>He is absolutely certain that he’s never mentioned the scorched, crumbling husk of the Korvan crystalmatrix to Jack. Or the screaming rent in space-time that finally burned it out as entire galaxies collapsed in on themselves, countless lives obliterated, millennia of history carved away and infinite futures ground to stardust in the rippling aftershocks of the de-mat bomb. Collateral damage. A quadrillion casual genocides. It never fails that when his repairs take him under the console, the Doctor finds himself staring up into the deadened crystalline lattice, watching pale golden light flicker feebly at his touch before it fades away like so many stars once did.</p><p>Just how closely has Jack been watching?</p><p>“What’s a Korvan converter?” Rose asks. She’s giving him that look again.</p><p>“A transitory particle interceptor and conductor for controlled artron energy dispersal,” he says. Unhelpfully.</p><p>“If you’re just going to take the mickey...” Rose grumbles.</p><p>“Think of it like...temporal shielding, but for the rest of the universe,” Jack explains. “Time travel puts this enormous strain on reality. The crystals in a Korvan converter are arranged to conduct that energy. It spreads out the impact on the causal nexus when the TARDIS materializes somewhere new, helps the universe adjust to changes and smooths out potential minor paradoxes. It can’t stop you killing your grandfather or anything like that, but it makes sure you don’t accidentally alter timelines just by displacing some atoms or crushing a few blades of grass when you land.”</p><p>She frowns slightly. Rose is usually more interested in living beings and new experiences than alien technology, and the Doctor loves her for it. Nonetheless, he’s just a little bit impressed by Jack’s understanding of temporal quantum mechanics. Of course, that proves unequivocally that the lad <em> knew better </em> and <em> still </em>chose to subject the fabric of the universe to that damned vortex manipulator...</p><p>“Spreads out the impact of materialization,” Rose says, thinking it through. “That would make landings go a bit more smoothly, yeah?”</p><p>“Oi, are you complaining about my driving?” the Doctor asks, stung.</p><p>“Just your parking,” Rose says tartly. She rubs an impressive bruise on her elbow, and the Doctor feels an unaccustomed twinge of guilt over their admittedly turbulent materialization in the Plass. For all that humanity would endure until the end of time, individual humans really did break so easily. Banged heads, alien plagues, sprained ankles. So particular about radiation and gravity levels. A few minutes without oxygen and they're practically dead. ‘Fragile’ isn’t a word he ever expected to use in connection with Rose Tyler. Probably still won’t, if Jackie’s slap is anything to judge by.</p><p>“Can’t exactly swap it out on my own, now can I?” he says. “It’s delicate work. Needs more than one pair of hands.”</p><p>Jack gives him his best suggestive grin. “Are you asking, Doctor?”</p><p>“Why, are you offering, Captain?” he fires back.</p><p>“Anything, anywhere, anytime, anyplace,” Jack quips easily.</p><p>Rose catches her tongue between her teeth, and the Doctor raises his hands in surrender. Rassilon, these two humans...</p><p>Jack and the Doctor each dutifully take a pair of paper shopping bags while Rose settles their bill at the counter. The waitress gives them both a disapproving glare and says something that makes Rose laugh. Whatever she says in return leaves the poor woman staring as Rose catches up with them again near the exit. They aren’t far from the Plass, and the TARDIS sings with delight at the return of her pilot. Emotions don’t translate across their states of consciousness, not really, but he thinks he feels a sense of urgency and anticipation, rather like a trauma patient at the first sight of the morphine drip. His eyes close briefly. Fragile isn’t a word he’d use in connection with his TARDIS either. Still, it’s a wonder that Time hasn’t splintered around her. The fractures in his own timeline run deep, the footprint of the Great Meddlers even before the War. The tension she must be holding reality under with each materialization, seismic fracture lines spidering outward even before he steps through her doors... Provided he didn’t let the lad cause too much carnage under the console, a functional Korvan matrix would do the TARDIS and the universe at large a world of good.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Right then. Rose, fancy a trip to a modern world?” the Doctor says, striding to the console. His fingers trail along the edge until he reaches the far side, where he stands half-hidden by a pair of display screens. Their pale blue glow casts harsh shadows on his face, deepening hollow eyes and bleaching sharp cheekbones to a ghostly pallor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her eyes light up, but Jack reads more relief than excitement in her face. He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He isn’t blind to the nature of the Doctor’s repairs. This ship has been through hell, and he thinks sometimes that the pilot is still there. Jack’s been on board long enough to see the pattern. He half-expected the Doctor to throw them into flight without a word and retreat into brooding silence, disappearing for hours or days into the endless, shifting corridors of his ship. The first time, Rose caught Jack's arm and said, confidential, "Leave him. He says to just leave him when this happens." But he could tell how much it worried her, how she didn't know what to do. Prying into the Doctor’s past was always risky, but at least for now, the Doctor seems willing to let it go.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought you’d never ask,” Rose says with a smile. “Where are we going?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Zyn Altair. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right: genuine avisiveon.” His movements are brisk and purposeful as he plots their course, but he doesn’t bother to set the shopping bags down until one catches on a sharp bit of metal protruding from under the control panel, bringing his hand up short. He glances down, bewildered, and tugs at it ineffectually until Jack rescues Rose’s new skirt from certain destruction. He vaguely remembers reading that torn clothing was supposed to be fashionable in this century, but he’s seen little evidence of it thus far. A shame, really.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Doctor doesn’t react when Jack cautiously lifts the bags out of his hand. He’s focused entirely on the array of mismatched switches and dials, the restlessness he’s valiantly concealed all afternoon finally given an outlet. It’s the determined set of his jaw gives him away. The Doctor is ancient, brilliant, and powerful, sure, but the guy isn’t that hard to read. Right now, he looks trapped. Terrified. Jack’s not sure if it’s the echo of whatever spatio-temporal cataclysm wrecked the converter, or just the idea of grubby human hands anywhere near the inner workings of his ship. Knowing the Doctor, probably both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fifty-second century, by Earth reckoning,” the Doctor says as the Time Rotor whirrs to life. “The upper atmosphere is remarkably low-density, and a quirk of the planet’s magnetic field attracts all sorts of stray particles from the Iustea asteroid belt. Space dust trapped in the stratosphere, swirling round the planet on the solar winds like glittering clouds. Makes for a fantastic sunrise, all pink and silver against the turquoise sky. Every spring, the rains wash it down, deep underground where it catalyzes and bonds with the soil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The locals are mostly three species: human, Zynai’i, and Altairan. They mine the rock veins and refine them in high-pressure forges. The lesser crystals amplify the kinetic energy of the planet’s rotation to power everything from engines to lightbulbs, but Grade IV avisiveon is pure enough to use as a temporal resonance conductor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack nods. “The Grade IV trade is tightly regulated to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. The Shadow Proclamation actually forbids landing on the surface of Zyn Altair without the planetary ruling council’s express invitation; all trade takes place on the planet’s three moons. The Agency had an entire division dedicated to the avisiveon black market.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Time Agency is the avisiveon black market,” the Doctor mutters.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, obvious question, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> we have permission to visit this planet?” Rose asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Doctor shrugs. “Time Lord, TARDIS, yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her smile widens. “Then what are we waiting for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He throws a lever forward with a flourish. Sparks fly from the switchboard and the TARDIS lurches into the Vortex, driving Jack hard against the padded railing. Rose grabs hold of the console, a thrilled little laugh escaping her as she stares up into the rotor. It eases some of the tension in the Doctor’s shoulders, and his forced manic grin softens a bit as he flips a pair of silver switches. It’s probably some sort of heresy to compare the TARDIS to a standard automobile, but the Doctor stretches his arm around the center column to pump what Jack’s come to think of as the gear shift, keeping a steady rhythm while his other hand rolls a copper dial into place. The bone-rattling tremors of materialization almost throw Rose back, but she bends her knees and rides it out, widening her stance just as the ship slams to a halt. Jack manages to stay on his feet as well, and he pats the railing affectionately. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thanks, gorgeous,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thinks. He’s no telepath, but the Doctor says she’s sentient, and he likes to think she can hear him. He swears he feels a change in the background hum of the machinery as the rotor grinds to a stop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Welcome to Dôl Elenath,” the Doctor announces. “Planetary capital and imperial seat, center of industry, and home of the best rock candy this side of the Tekkolyr Nebula. The city rises seven levels high, circling the mountain it was named for. And we’re right at the...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He trails off as Rose throws open the doors, revealing a flat, dusty red landscape dotted with low brown scrub vegetation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...top,” the Doctor finishes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack bushes past Rose, one hand falling to his hip before he remembers his blaster isn’t there. He checks the motion and breathes his way through combat conditioning he can scarcely remember. The cool air is bracing, but it lacks the saltwater tinge of autumn in Cardiff. Beneath his feet, there are thin scores in the ground, straight lines of cut-down stalks stretching out toward a distant treeline. A field left to nature. Off to their right, there’s a crumbling ruin of a barn, loose shingles flapping in the wind. The sky is a deep blue-green shot through with ribbons of sparkling silver beneath a pink sun that lends everything a faintly rosy tint. In the distance beyond the field, the ground gains texture, low rolling hills with a thicker covering of green not quite dense enough to be called grass, building toward a glinting silver mountain. It’s too far off for Jack to make out many details, but he can see defined bulges along the sides at intervals too regular to be natural.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Looks like we’ve got a bit of a walk ahead of us,” Rose says, joining him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll say.” Jack steps back inside to grab his coat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back at the console, the Doctor is hunched over the smaller of the two displays, jabbing at it with his screwdriver. “Not a word, Captain,” he says mildly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he lies. “Was it a Hallivan slide?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Temporal defense to reroute incoming time-travellers? No, she’s been getting around those for centuries, and they typically dump you into the event horizon of a black hole. We’re just...taking the scenic route.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack shakes his head. “That mountain’s gotta be thirty klicks away.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ve landed in the middle of a farm. Farms mean civilization, which means people, which means transport. No paved roads nearby, so there’s got to be a teleport network for transporting the crops. Industrial transmat is no way to travel, but they’re not half as temperamental as </span>
  <em>
    <span>some </span>
  </em>
  <span>methods.” The look of fond exasperation that he gives the console is the same one people use with their husbands and wives after sixty years of contented monogamy. Jack would give anything to hear her side of it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Doctor pats the console one last time before he dashes out the door. Outside, Rose is prodding a dead stalk of some plant that looks a bit like a cross between sweet corn and a cactus. “So, fifty-second century planets runnin’ on diamond batteries still have farms that belong in East Anglia?” she asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s called venat’ta,” the Doctor says. “Local dietary staple. The fruit is round and hard, bit like a coconut, and filled with nutritious fluid. Tastes sort of minty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack is more interested in the low brush that seems to have cropped up in irregular patches. “I don’t think anyone’s planted anything here in a while.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Doctor frowns and runs his sonic screwdriver over the ground in a slow, thorough sweep. “That can’t be right.” He repeats the scan, crouching to scoop some of the reddish dirt in his hand. It’s so thin and dry that it slides through his fingers like sand. “Can’t be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” Rose asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The soil has a high concentration of lycorium.” He looks up at the barn. “Anything grown here would be toxic.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rose pulls her hand back from the plant. “Erm, Doctor...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not in danger unless you eat it or get infected venat’ta fluid on your skin,” he reassures her, already striding across the field. Jack and Rose rush to follow. “Lycorium isn’t native to this planet, though. Not even found in this galaxy. It doesn’t make any sense.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack puts a hand on the Doctor’s shoulder as they reach the barn. “Let me go first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Doctor just rolls his eyes and shoves the wooden door open. The interior is dark and empty except for a handful of broken crates and a waist-high pile of dried venat’ta stalks, but there are smudges in the dust covering the warped, wooden floor. Jack follows the freshest tracks to a row of storage cabinets along the far wall. He motions for Rose and the Doctor to stay back and quickly throws two of the doors open, revealing a mound of tattered blankets and coats. There’s a dip in the middle of the pile where someone small must have slept. He turns back to the Doctor, who nods grimly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened here?” Rose whispers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Doctor turns back to examine the door, running his hand over splintered boards and bent hinges. He steps out into the middle of the room to look up at the holes in the roof, and Jack follows his gaze. They’re small, only a couple of centimeters around, but whole sections of the roof have collapsed in areas where the damage was concentrated too close to the support beams.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bullet holes?” Jack asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But no bullets,” the Doctor says. He crouches down beside a patch of sunlight, where they can see shallow round scorch marks etched into the floorboards. “Laser gun, fired from high altitude.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jack carefully opens all of the cabinets, revealing a few dented metal cans and half a pack of freeze-dried ration cubes, but he sees no other evidence of the barn’s occupants. He does a thorough sweep of the building anyway, just in case. He’s looking for trap doors, loose boards, walls just a few inches thicker than they ought to be. Anywhere a child might hide. He doesn’t find anything of the sort, but he does notice the distinct lack of a transmat platform. Jack frowns and jabs a button on his wrist strap, pulling up the space-time coordinates for their current location, but the readout projection gives him nothing but pale blue static. That’s a first.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Doctor flicks a dismissive hand toward it. “Global lockdown. No unauthorized temporal manipulation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d we get here in the first place, then?” Rose asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Time Lord, TARDIS.” The words are hard and bitter. The Doctor doesn’t elaborate, already pacing around the room. “A better question would be, if this planet has the technology to produce and control a localized temporal interference field, why isn’t there a </span>
  <em>
    <span>simple</span>
  </em>
  <span> bloody transmat? Or a way to decontaminate a field poisoned with lycorium?”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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